Hot for Teacher
by Anti-canon
Summary: Stiles used to hate gym with a fiery intense passion, until Derek Hale took over the teaching position and now that fire has moved from his heart to his loins. The ridiculous uniforms, hormone addled locker room, and his own teenage angst really aren't helping things...


**A/N: So, I may or may not be ****completely and utterly ****ashamed at my lack of control with this fic. It was never supposed to happen, but the appeal was too great. I blame it on the fact that there are no locker room fics in the fandom! What the hell people? The show gives us half-naked to full on birthday suit boys in locker rooms and nobody does anything with it! That is highly disappointing. We all know at some point in their lives the hormones just boiled over and every single person on that lacrosse team has experimented with each other. **

**IN ANY CASE! This was initially just a PWP, as evidenced by the thousand and one kinks that pop up throughout (also, all you SPN fans out there will get ****_exactly _****which gym teacher outfit I'm talkin' about), but somehow at the very end some pretty heavy ~feelings~ leaked through and I have no idea how that happened. :P Clearly I am quite in control of my narratives. I'd love if y'all left me your comments at the end, even if it's just to criticize my infatuation with hairy arses and foreskins. -/- And on that note! Enjoy. :)**

* * *

It's hard enough being a teenager under regular circumstances, but when you just happen to also have a gym teacher that looks like Derek Hale, it's damn near impossible.

This high school atmosphere is absolutely perfect for formulating unhealthy fixations- just the right amounts of humiliation, hormones, and hypersexualization. If a men's locker room wasn't specifically designed to make young men question their sexuality, then you're not entirely sure what its purpose is. All that sweat and skin and weirdly, terribly arousing stink… it makes you hard just thinking about it. Lockers full of sweaty undergarments, troughs instead of urinals, showers without separating walls- might as well be the set for a porno. Add into all of that a broody, angry Adonis with dreamy eyes, a position of power, and the most ridiculous dress code you've ever seen, and you've got yourself one potent mixture.

You can't help but stare at Coach Hale, standing in the bleachers, arms crossed, brows furrowed, all that muscle barely contained by a stark white polo and 70's style red shorts while he purses his lips just tight enough to hold a whistle between them. It makes you weak in the knees. He catches you gawking and the black plastic falls from his lips- a look coming across his face that delicately tiptoes the line between turned on and infuriated. "Stilinski!" _Ohsweetmotherofjesus, _you kind of just want him to do that again. Naked. And sweating. Maybe he can keep the tube socks… and the sweatband around his forehead. "Locker room- now."

You wonder if he knows just what that does to you, if he can see it in the heat of your gaze, or the full body quiver, or the small whimpering noise that floats out of your mouth. Everyone else around you mistakes it for fear, patting you on the back or offering consoling glances. But with eyes as sharp as his, he _has _to know, has to be able to tell that you've jacked yourself raw in those very showers just thinking about him. You wheeze a long, shuddering breath and take the short walk over to the entrance slowly, trying to disguise the wood in your briefs as reluctance.

It seems to go over fairly well, the boys in the gymnasium turning their attention back to the hell on earth that is dodgeball, screaming like dying war heroes. Out of the corner of your eye you see Derek- Coach Hale- take a detour to his office and you are glad for the small wait. Walking down past the dark metal trough and the stalls to the benches and lockers, you pace and take shallow breaths, willing your erection to fade despite the musk and the jockstraps surrounding you. It's an uphill battle.

You shove your hands deep into the pockets of your basketball shorts and try to make yourself as small as possible when you hear the door swing open again and heavy, deliberate footsteps approach. Coach Hale's voice carries through the room as he comes into view with a clipboard in front of him, "You missed our scoliosis tests last week and the district made them mandatory a while back. Take off your shirt and bend over." In the space of an instant all that hard work- gone. Just- gone. In fact, you're pretty sure you're leaking a little bit now.

"Wh-what?" Your palms are starting to sweat and you can feel your pulse jackrabbitting just behind your ear.

"Shirt. Off. Bend. Over." You swallow thickly, let another pathetic whimper rush past your lips, and peel back your shirt with shaking hands. You're _so _screwed. And not even in the fun way. You bend over and wait to feel those hands trail down your spine, those calloused fingers ghost across your skin, but after several long seconds nothing happens. You turn your head to check over your shoulder, but he's suddenly moving, coming around to stand in front of you. "Further!" A foot slams up on the bench in front of you and a hand comes down to grip at your neck, shoving you forward.

You almost stumble over into him, but you manage to keep your feet and don't dare to move an inch once you do. Slowly, carefully your eyes travel up the thick hair on his ridiculously toned calves up… and up… and up… and- the shorts are different. You know every single stitch and seam on those sinful, awful regulation shorts, and these aren't them. The red is faded, the fabric dingier, the cut… shorter. Your mouth goes completely dry when you see Derek Hale, in all his glory (for it is the single most glorious thing you have ever seen), hanging out of the bottom of his shorts. Just the very tip of his flushed, purpling tip is peeking out of the foreskin, the whole of it resting on a low hanging, hairy scrotum that floods your mouth with the saliva it so desperately needed.

He changed. He went into his office and changed. So that his cock would be free. When he bent you over a bench. You don't know how to process this information, so instead you stay silent as he makes a soft noise of affirmation, pleased with your position, and moves back behind you. A single finger comes to sit at the base of your neck, lingering, confident, before dragging down… and down… and down. When he reaches the space just above your waistband, his hand twists and the back of his finger skims back up. The next time four digits make their way down, firmer, caressing, and they just keep going, beneath the shorts, beneath your briefs, his index finger delving between your cheeks and catching against your opening.

Unable to hold back any longer, you push back, a low moan dropping from your throat and making him chuckle. "Someone seems to be enjoying their examination a little too much." His voice is playful, but still has an edge to it, ready to turn back to commanding at a second's notice. He takes his hand out of your pants, making you whine, but when he comes back around and you can see the precome dripping from his foreskin, the way he's started to fill out, it's worth it. "You horny boys are always _so _eager." One of his hands rubs absentmindedly at the flat of his stomach before lifting his shirt up, scratching at the thick hair before diving into his shorts, making his head fall back and his hips roll. "I swear I can taste the pheromones in here."

He only allows himself the stimulation for a handful of seconds before he pulls back out and bunches the leg of his shorts up into his crotch, letting the rest of his length and the other testicle fall free. They hang heavy, thick, hairy, bobbing for a few tense seconds before you take it as an invitation and lurch forward, burying your face in his curls and just breathing it in. His fingers thread through your hair a few times before he tugs, urging you to get on with it, and you take the command enthusiastically, taking his head inside your mouth and pushing your tongue beneath the foreskin, letting out a pleased noise when you discover how hot and soft the skin is. He groans and stutters further inside, pulling on your hair, just this side of painful.

"That's it Stilisnki, so fucking wet. Your lips were made to suck cock." You bring a hand up to cup his balls, rolling them gently between your fingers before letting them travel back to massage his taint, and then press at his entrance, already moist and pliable. He groans, pulls you off of him and shoves your fingers in instead. It only takes you a moment to understand what he wants and then you're sloppily drooling all over the digits, letting your eyes drift upward to see Derek staring back, pupils blown, a hunger in them so intense you nearly come right there.

Just as eager as you are, he pulls your hand away from your mouth and guides your fingers back, his usually unnoticeable buck teeth biting into his bottom lip when you sink inside. You peel his foreskin back and lick at his slit, finding the bitterness more and more pleasurable as you start sucking him in again, all the while probing, scissoring, and adding one finger after another. You don't know how long you stay there, content to do this the rest of your life, hovering on the edge of orgasm while his fingernails scrape against your scalp and he tests the limits of your gag reflex. But all too soon he gets impatient, fucking _growls _at you, and pulls away. Your mouth and chin are covered in spit and precome, your throat is sore, your lips are swollen, and you're pretty sure you're gonna just have to burn this pair of underwear, but all you want to do is dive back in.

Derek snakes an arm around your neck, pulls you in close, and kisses you, slow, filthy, and dominating. He wrestles you into just the position he wants, has you eating out of the palm of his hand, and turns around. He braces himself against the wall, drops his shorts, and collapses his hips, presenting the slick, winking hole you just prepared. Instead of arching like you thought he would, the bottom of his spine is… decidedly convex, but that just makes his ass pop right out, the thick muscle of his thighs tensing when you run a careful hand along his cheeks, using your fingers to brush hair away from his dusky opening.

He looks over his shoulder at you, eyes fierce and authoritative as ever, and without a thought you drop to your knees, press your whole face into him, nose smushing inside his crack as you tongue at him, humming and moaning as the musk of him fills your senses, the taste and smell making your inner thighs quiver as your scrotum draws up and you come hot and thick and painful in your shorts, more jizz than you've ever produced in your life soaking your genitals, sticky and heady. "_Fuck!" _Derek pushes further back against you and your hands move- from parting him to get deeper, to wrapping around the root of his throbbing erection and stripping it, tight and unrelenting.

One of his hands comes around to push you deeper, very nearly suffocating you in what might be the greatest case of homicide the world has ever seen, and just seconds later he's groaning, low, wrecked, and painting the wall and floor with his own semen. You keep playing with him until he goes completely soft in your hands, and slowly pushes off the wall. When he turns around he doesn't even bother to cover himself up, just lounges against the spattering of his own fluids and happily scratches at his abs, a blissed out smile curling the edges of his lips. "You might just earn an A yet Stilinski, the very first in your physical education career."

You stand up and rub a hand across the back of your neck, all the inhibitions from before rushing right back. You're not quite sure what the protocol here is, what he wants from you now, if this was just a one-time thing, if you're allowed to ask for more. All you can say for sure is that now the semen has cooled it's really starting to itch and while the squelching was all kinds of crazy hot just seconds ago, it's kind of making your nose wrinkle.

In some kind of startling intuition, you'd chosen to stop in front of your locker, and not knowing what else to do, you turn around and spin the lock, pulling out your jeans before dropping your shorts and briefs, using the latter to clean yourself up, and then pull the denim on, wincing at the drag of the material, but amazingly already turned on at the idea of freeballing for the rest of the day. Embarrassed as hell you turn around, expecting to find Coach Hale back to his angry, closed-off self. Instead he's pulling his shorts up with one hand, the other holding your bunched up, soiled briefs to his nose.

"I think I'll keep these as reassurance." His eyes drag all over your frame and you wonder if he'd always looked at you like that and you only now noticed, or if that was how he looked at teenage boys in general. With that in mind, his statement sits poorly in your stomach and you find yourself questioning if this is a regular thing with him, if he's had countless of your other classmates just like this, if you're just a name on a long list of conquests. You wouldn't be surprised. For as staunchly straight as every boy in your class professes to be, half-seriously accusing every person whose gaze lingers a little too long in the showers, you know that each and every one of them would give it up at the drop of a hat if Derek Hale was the one offering. Just like you did.

"Don't worry, I'll keep your little secret. If there's one thing we know how to do, it's keep our mouths shut." You slam your locker door a little harder than necessary and Derek's brows furrow.

"We?"

"The guys my age- wouldn't be very good teenagers if we were shit at lying. If no one else has said anything yet, I won't be the one to."

Derek finally breaks away from the wall, scowl darkening his features as he stalks over. "I only ever made a move with you, though Jackson has convinced me to let him blow his way through more than a few unexcused absences." His hands curl into fists and his eyes close off, the easiness shutting off like a switch. "I thought- you know what, never mind. Say whatever you want."

Your stomach drops out and a chilled sweat breaks across your skin as Derek storms past you, knuckles crashing into the lockers when he rounds the corner. Does that mean- oh god. You run after him, tripping all over yourself as you desperately scream out, "Wait, wait!" You only barely reach him before he opens the door and your hands scrabble against his shoulders, fighting to spin him around. "If- if you didn't mean it like that, then what did you mean?" Derek only lets you turn him once he's heard the question and you can see the hesitance in his eyes, the internal fight about whether he should finish pushing you away, or take another chance.

If he meant what you think he did- it makes you wonder about how difficult this must have been, how walking into that locker room might have been just as terrifying for him as it was for you. If he had guessed wrong, if he had done that and you hadn't been interested- he could have gone to prison. Your heart squeezes painfully and you run a hand up the side of his neck, cup his jaw. "What did you mean?"

His eyes search your own for a long time, his breathing heavy, his mouth set in a grim line. "I was trying to be… playful. I'd keep them as a reassurance that you'd come back." He says it reluctantly, like he's beating himself up, like it was the dumbest thing he could've ever done. Only thing is, it makes your face flush and your heart flutter, and this is what it should have been the first time. You should have smiled coyly and kissed him and kept that easy, contented smile on his lips. You kind of hate yourself for ruining it.

You don't know what to say, never had a talent for words despite the overabundance with which you use them. Instead you just alter what you should have done, beam gleefully, nose at him until he brushes your lips together, sigh softly when he clenches your hips. "You don't need any collateral. I was yours the first day I walked through these doors."


End file.
